


January 24th, 1996

by Nepenthene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (In case you couldn't tell from all the tags I really hate John Winchester), Angst and Feels, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Boys Kissing, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Dean Winchester's Birthday, Dean hates pop music, Dean's First Case, Diners, Flustered Dean Winchester, Hero Worship, Homophobic John Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, It's All John Winchester's Fault, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John Winchester's Journal, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sam is a sweet lil bean, Thanks for that John, We wish John Winchester a very good die, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, Young!Dean is kind of a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepenthene/pseuds/Nepenthene
Summary: Dean took care of the nuns just like I thought he would, but I don't think I'm going to be sending him on any more solos soon. That one was a little tense.Dean goes on his first ever solo hunt. He is seventeen.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 43





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Dean! This is... not _for_ our boy, per se, because I kind of end up hurting him _(sorry)_ but it does take place right around his birthday, soooo... yeah. The original idea, and the first couple lines of the summary, come from an entry in the official John Winchester's Journal by Alex Irvine, which you can find online at Academia.edu. I've had the idea in my writing folder for a while, but all the analysis of this particular entry that was floating around a couple weeks ago gave me more fodder and a burst of inspiration, lol.

**_January 24th_ _, 1996_ **

No. _Way._ Dean’s _sure_ he must’ve heard that wrong. “What?”

Dad cocks an eyebrow. “I said, I think it’s time we found you a case.”

Dean stares at him. “You mean… solo? Just me?”

Dad actually cracks a faint smile, and Dean does too. “Something small. You’re seventeen now, it’s time to start getting out there on your own.”

Dean tamps down on his excitement and tries not to grin like an idiot. “Yeah, definitely.” Pausing to drop some oil into the trigger mech of the pistol he’s cleaning, he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “So, uh, when do I start?”

Dad chuckles, re-assembling his pump-action and setting it aside. “Heard about something promising earlier today. Looks like a haunting up in Wyoming. You can head out in the next couple days.”

 _Fuck_ yeah. Dean can’t help but smile now, a warm kernel of pride settling in the centre of his chest. Dad thinks he’s _ready_ for this. “Sounds great, Dad. Thanks.”

Dad claps him on the shoulder, pulling his journal and a pen out of his duffel. “You’re ready, Dean. You’ve done some solid work lately.” His mouth twitches into a tiny almost-smile. “Now finish up with that pistol and you can get the whetstone out for the knives.”

Holy shit. Holy _shit_. Dean’s got a _case._ This is the best birthday _ever._

**_January 26th_ **

The haunting Dad found for him is in Riverton, Wyoming. St. Stephen's Indian Mission. From what they’ve been able to figure, it’s the ghost of at least one nun, probably two, from the sixties. The vic quoted in the paper claimed he was attacked by a chick in a habit, and when Dad found the double suicide of a couple nuns who got caught doin’ the dirty in ‘64, well. Those kinds of deaths tend to stir up vengeful spirits almost as much as murders do. Once Dean goes in, all he has to do is confirm things with the locals, find the rosary or whatever that’s tethering the girls, and do a quick little salt n’ burn. Easy-peasy. 

On Thursday, Dad takes them down to his buddy’s junkyard: the guy gets them a truck, a rusty old Ford that smells like cigarettes and stale sweat, and tells them not to bother returning it. Dean can’t bring himself to care how shitty it is, though. Because for the week, it’s _his_. 

Sam’s happy for him, he knows that. But Dean can tell he’s worried, too, because he spends all the spare time he’s got down at the library, scrounging up every bit of info about the Mission he can find. He shoves a file folder at Dean after dinner that’s filled with printouts, news articles, and pictures. He clears his throat.

“This is all of it. There’s not a lot, I know, but I figured you could use a head start on the research.”

Dean flips through the file, grinning a little. “Hey, thanks Sammy.”

Sam pulls a face, whacking Dean’s shoulder. “It’s Sam, jerk.”

Dean tosses the file onto the bed and launches himself at Sam, ignoring the squawk of surprise and wrestling his brother into a headlock. He ruffles Sam’s hair as the kid squirms around, laughing and trying to elbow him in the stomach. “Watch it, bitch. I can still beat your scrawny ass.”

Sam finally manages to wriggle out of Dean’s grip, pushing his hair out of his face with a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Just wait ‘til I’m taller than you.”

Dean flops onto his back on the creaky motel bed, pillowing his arms behind his head. “In your dreams, Samantha,” he scoffs, and then smiles at Sam’s long-suffering eye roll. 

He doesn’t have to worry. Dean’ll be fine.

Friday drags. Dean swears each period of class lasts twice as long as it’s supposed to, but the promise of what he gets to do when the last bell finally rings keeps him going. Dad’s waiting for them in the car when he and Sam get out, and Dean’s practically vibrating with excitement the whole way back to the motel.

He grabs his duffel from the room and tosses it into the back of the truck, running through a mental checklist. Salt, gun, ammo, kerosene, Zippo. EMF, notebook, research, nice-ish duds. Credit card, cash. 

He smiles to himself. All set.

He turns from the car to say goodbye and immediately finds himself with an armful of gangly almost-fourteen-year-old. Sam hugs him tightly, hands fisted in the back of his jacket. “Be careful, Dean,” he whispers, and Dean squeezes him back.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be easy as pie. I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he steps back and tries for a smile. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest. 

Then Dad steps closer, fixing Dean with a serious gaze. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “You’ve got almost four days, here, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to do this on your own. Just focus on the case, don’t take unnecessary risks, and don’t get anyone else involved. You hear?”

Dean nods. “I hear you.”

Dad rests a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Dean sobers. He knew it already, sure, but the look in Dad’s eyes really drives it home. This is a test as much as it is a reward. He needs… he needs to do this right. He needs to prove to Dad that he can be trusted.

Then Dad retracts his hand, and the moment passes. “You’ve got work to do.”

Nodding, Dean slides into the driver’s seat of the truck and, giving Sam a final wave, pulls out of the parking lot. 

Then, with the open road stretching out in front of him, a grin pulls at his mouth. Hell yeah. Dean Winchester is officially on the case.

— - —

Riverton is a quiet, respectable little town that Dean thinks’d actually be pretty nice in the spring. But now, at the end of an unseasonably mild January, it’s a dreary, washed-out place marinating in a soup of cold, grey slush. 

Delightful. 

Dean drops his stuff off at the motel and then stops for an early dinner before he gets down to business. The waitress points him in the direction of the Mission when he asks, rolling her eyes at his playful flirting. But she smiles when she takes the cash, so hey. 

The Mission itself is up on a hill just outside town. It’s a little run down, like a lot of churches are these days, but the church itself and all the outbuildings are clean and obviously well looked-after. Dean knocks on the door of the priest’s house, shivering as a gust of cold wind whistles past. 

The door opens to reveal a round, content-looking older man in a priest’s collar. “Yes?”

Dean grins winningly. “Hi, you must be Father O’Reilly. I’m Dean Winchester, with the Casper Historical Society. Can I come in?”

— - —

Dean thanks the priest, smiling politely. “Yes, that’ll be all. Thanks again, Father, you’ve been a big help.”

Then the door closes and Dean immediately drops the smile, rolling his eyes as he turns back towards the church. What a waste of goddamn time. 

The priest was worse than useless. All he wanted to do on the tour Dean convinced him to give was talk about every renovation they’ve had at this place over the past ten years. 

For a whole _._

_Freakin’._

Hour.

And during that time, he didn’t give so much as a peep about anything ghostly or abnormal. When Dean had mentioned that article Dad had seen as a last-ditch attempt to get something out of him, the priest had shut right up except to say he was sorry for “that poor man. We appreciate Mr. Brown’s work here very much, and we hope he recovers soon. He’s in our prayers.”

So yeah. Bad news for Dean. 

At least now he can actually get a little work done before it gets dark. He starts a circuit of the grounds, pausing every few feet to surreptitiously scan for EMF under the guise of admiring the architecture or reading one of the many plaques. But that doesn’t turn up much either, even when he’s walking through the cemetery. 

Dean stops, shoving his EMF meter into his pocket in frustration. Shit. He’s gonna have to change up his strategy if he wants to get anywhere on this. 

“Hey. You’re standing on Mrs. DeRosen’s flowers.”

Dean’s head jerks up in surprise. There’s a blond kid standing in the same row of graves as Dean, staring at him with his arms crossed. He nods at Dean’s feet, and Dean looks down. A bouquet of roses is squashed beneath his foot.

He hops back a few steps, grimacing. “Shit. Sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”

The kid raises an eyebrow, lips quirking up into a half-smile. “I’m just kidding, it’s fine. It’s not like she’s gonna care.” Not really a kid, Dean amends. He’s probably a little older than Dean is, actually, wearing a windbreaker over a too-big Riverton Mission polo that’s tucked haphazardly into a pair of khakis. His nose is bright red from the cold. 

Dean sticks out a hand. “Dean Winchester.”

The guy takes it, his gloved grip firm. “Josh Lane. I’m the groundskeeper.”

Dean eyes the rickety wheelbarrow parked at the end of the row, with an ancient looking shovel and a pile of burlap visible inside. “You don’t say.”

Josh grins. “Hey, it puts money in my pocket. I hope you’re not here to try and take my job, or we’re gonna have a problem.”

Dean snorts. “Nah, I’m helping my dad write an article.” He fishes his notebook out of his pocket and holds it up. “Doin’ some research.”

The guy looks almost impressed. “Shit. Well, I’ll let you get back to it. If you need anything, I’ll probably be around.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and grins crookedly. “See ya, Dean.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Dean manages, a couple of butterflies doing some experimental backflips in his stomach. That’s… that’s a megawatt smile. It must bring the girls in like _crazy_ if it worked on him.

He stops, an icy feeling shooting down his spine. Wait, it… it worked on him?

He tries to take back the thought.

It stays.

— - —

It’s late. Dean should be asleep. 

He’s got things to do tomorrow, people to interrogate. He needs to be on his A-game and get this thing done sooner rather than later.

The smile pops back into his brain. He rolls over, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to escape the memory, but that does the exact opposite of what he’d been hoping for: more memories trickle in, all connected in a way Dean doesn’t wanna look at too closely. (A shiver creeping through him when he’d pursed his lips around the filter of a shared cigarette. He’d locked eyes with the boy whose cigarette it was, huddled next to him under the bleachers during fifth period, and held his gaze as he exhaled a long, lazy stream of smoke.) (Another hunter Dad worked with one time, late twenties with dark hair and strong arms, who’d made all of Dean’s words dry up as soon as he so much as looked at him.) (Sam groaning and asking if they really had to watch Indiana Jones again. Dean shushing him, eyes glued to the screen.)

No, he’s… he remembers the curl of Dad’s lip when he’d mentioned the reason those nuns killed themselves. _Man up, Dean, I didn’t raise some kinda pansy._ How angry he’d been when Clinton passed Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. Dean was… eleven? Twelve? He doesn’t remember.

What he does remember is Dad muttering darkly that when he’d been in, they’d handled that sorta thing just fine without any politicians stickin’ their noses where they didn’t belong. Dean hadn’t really understood, then, just nodded sagely and asked to put in a tape.

He gets it now.

That’s not Dean, though. Dean likes menthols and stolen booze and the feel of the steering wheel under his hands. He likes Metallica and Led Zeppelin. He’s not soft, or weak, or… nothing like that. He doesn’t cry. He pushes through and does what he needs to do to get the job done.

He doesn’t need to go up to the Mission tomorrow, anyway. He’s got things to do in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one, done. Opinions on Josh? Personally I LOVE him and you will be getting LOTS more of him in the coming chapters. I'm really excited to share the rest of this with you, and I've been teasing my friends with little snippets for _weeks,_ so it's nice to finally be able to post!
> 
> Hugs,  
> Nepenthene


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I'm back again! This chapter is pretty case-heavy; Dean's doing _legwork,_ his least favourite part of every case ever lol. But there's a lil bit of angst, still, because heh. I am me. ;)
> 
> And now we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a plug! My friend [InkOfEmrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkOfEmrys/pseuds/InkOfEmrys) has a multitude of incredible works, but their current fic To Be Angelic is _amazing_ and only getting more so with each update. Charlie making closet jokes! Dean and Cas being sappy idiots! Sam being So Done With Life! Ahhhhh it's so good and it's also a fat read, so it'll keep you occupied for a hot minute!
> 
> Okay I'm done. Have fun with this one guys!

**_January 27_ _t_ _h_ **

Dean checks the address he has written down again, eyebrows drawing together. Really? It… it doesn’t look like _anyone_ lives here. 

Still, it’s all he’s got. So, shrugging and putting the piece of paper back in his pocket, he walks up to the little house and raps on the door. “Hello?”

He’s just about to give up and head back to his truck when the door creaks open, a wiry old man with a thinning comb over peering through the gap. He’s got a cut and a nasty looking bruise on his forehead. Bingo.

“Didn’t you see the sign? I don’t want to buy anything.”

The guy starts to close the door again, but Dean jumps to explain himself. “Hey, just— I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m with an independent newspaper in Casper. We, uh, heard about what happened and we wanted to talk to you. You are Mr. Brown, right?”

The old man pauses, looking at Dean shrewdly. “A newspaper? You want… you want to interview me?”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a smile. “Would you mind?”

— - —

“So,” the old man says, passing Dean a cup of tea. “What do you want to know?”

Dean takes a sip to be polite and then sets it aside, pulling a notepad and pencil from the pocket of his coat. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened the other day, and we can go from there.”

The man narrows his eyes distrustfully. “Son, aren’t you… aren’t you a little young to be a reporter?”

Dean just smiles. “It’s the family business. Extra credit for school, y’know.”

That, at least, seems to placate him, and after taking a long drink from his own cup, Mr. Brown starts to talk.

“Well, I’m the janitor at the mission,” he begins. “There aren’t as many nuns there as there used to be, so they need a little extra help to keep the place clean. I’ve been working there for, oh. Twelve years now? Father O’Reilly and the nuns are lovely, I’ve never had cause to complain.”

“That is,” Dean prompts, “not until last week. Right?”

The old man frowns a little. “You have to understand, there are some ridiculous stories flying around. I hit my head, I wasn’t thinking straight. But that doesn’t make good news, does it? Ghost stories and that sort of hogwash are the only thing that sells these days.”

“I know, journalistic standards are goin’ all to h— pot,” Dean amends lamely, in an attempt to soothe the man. “But I just want the truth. So, uh, walk me through the sequence of events on the evening it happened.” Christ, Dean’s already had to repeat the first goddamn question _and_ narrowly avoid saying “hell” in case this guy gets twitchy about that kinda thing. Ugh. Old people. Old _religious_ people.

The man sits for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Dean doodles Robert Plant’s logo on the corner of his notepad.

Finally, Mr. Brown clears his throat. “Alright. Well, let me see. I was making my way through the rooms on the second floor, because no one’s lived in those for years. I dust, mop, that sort of thing. Keep them looking nice. I was almost done— I just had to do the last room at the end of the hall, the one that looks out towards the church. For some reason, that room always gets a little dirtier than the others, and— oh, I don’t know. I got frustrated and decided I was going to give it a real deep cleaning, see if that did anything.”

“And then what happened?” Damn, Dean’s not even gonna get to have _lunch_ after this. He still has to go to the library to do some follow up research. Gross.

But he looks back up when Mr. Brown doesn’t continue right away, and something in his expression makes Dean perk up. 

He’s _scared._ Maybe this won’t be a bust after all.

“I… well. I moved the dresser in the corner, you see, and there was a rosary that had fallen down behind it. It was plain, black beads. Like the ones the nuns wear, but I don’t know why it would have been up there. No one has lived in that room for decades. I put it in my pocket to return to them, assuming one of them lost it at some point, and then I…”

“Yes?” Dean says, trying hard not to let his excitement show on his face.

The man’s face hardens in disbelief. “I must have slipped on a patch of wet floor. I hit my head, saw some very strange things, and then I don’t remember anything else until the ambulance arrived.”

Dean asks a few more follow-up questions, just so the guy doesn’t get too suspicious, but it’s all he can do to stifle the triumphant grin trying to muscle its way onto his face. This is practically flat-out confirmation of the story, _and_ a lead on the object. So before the guy shows him out, Dean shakes his hand and then acts like he’s just gotten a brilliant idea. “Say, uh, Mr. Brown. I’m heading back up to the Mission later. If you’ve still got the rosary on you, I could return it to the sisters.”

“Really?” The old man asks. 

“Really, sir,” Dean says brightly, playing up the golly-gee-I’m-just-an-upstanding-citizen angle as much as he can. “It’s the least I can do.” 

This time, thankfully, it works, and the old man softens a little. “You’re not a bad kid, Mr. Winchester.” He reaches into his pocket, withdraws the rosary, and coils it in Dean’s outstretched palm. “Good luck with your extra credit, young man.”

Dean grins and puts the rosary into his pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Brown. You’ve been a big help.”

— - —

Shit.

Dean glares at the rosary. He turns the EMF meter off, whacks it against the dash a couple times, then turns it back on and scans again.

 _Damn_ it. “How are you not the fuckin’ tether?” Dean mutters in frustration, tossing the rosary onto the passenger seat. There’s _no_ EMF. None. Which means this can’t possibly be what’s keeping the ghost nuns on earth, because that’s not how this works. Objects _always_ have some kind of aura if they’re anchoring a spirit, and this rosary might as well be a newly-bought Tupperware container for all the readings it’s giving off. 

Still scowling, he throws the truck into drive and pulls away from the curb, heading to the library to see if he can find out why the fuck this isn’t what he was looking for.

In a _shocking_ turn of events, his mood doesn’t improve after two hours at Riverton’s public library. He hadn’t expected much in the way of news stories, sure, but there’s _nothing._

Shows how smart he is. Whaddya _mean_ there aren’t any in-depth reports from the _sixties_ about a couple of _nuns_ who were caught _boning_ and then _offed_ themselves? That’s, like. At _least_ three different taboos in one goddamn story, plus the Big Arch No-No that is the Catholic Church. _Of course_ there’s barely two words about any of it. God, Dean doesn’t know why he thought this’d help.

He does end up finding a group photo of all the nuns in a paper from 1960, and after a few minutes of squinting at the caption, he figures out which two are the ones he’s looking for. They’re standing next to each other in the third row.

Something he can’t name pulls in his chest. They… they weren’t that much older than he is, by the looks of it. Early twenties, maybe? They’re… fuck, if he didn’t know better, he’d think they almost look like they’re holding hands in this goddamn picture.

And now they’ve been twisted into violent shadows of their former selves, and Dean’s going to burn them to ash.

He leaves the papers sitting out on the table and stalks back out to his truck. He’s gonna go get some goddamn food, and then… 

He sighs. He’ll figure out what to do next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know that this one was kinda short, but... next week's chapter is roughly _4000 words._ So. Y'all will have that BEAST to look forward to, and I PROMISE it is gonna be good. (Hint: Josh makes a reappearance.)


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the beast! Fun fact, I actually miscounted. This thing is almost _5000 words._ So yeah, never say I'm not nice. ;D
> 
>  **TW: homophobic language.** Dean uses the word "queer" in the derogatory sense at one point, when he's trying to convince himself he doesn't like Josh. He's not referring to any specific person, he's not hurling slurs at people; I wrote it as him repeating the things he's heard from John to himself. It's in the second paragraph of the second section, in case that's not your jam and you want to skip over it.

**_January 28th_ **

Dean exits the nun’s quarters, his hands deep in his pockets and a troubled look on his face. He’s now minus one very not-haunted rosary and still sitting at exactly zero leads. He did manage to get a look around the room Mr. Brown said he found the rosary in, but that didn’t turn anything up. He looked beneath both the beds, behind the chest of drawers, _inside_ the chest of drawers, everywhere. Not so much as a peep or a flicker from the EMF meter.

At least this gives him something of a clue as to why Brown got attacked. Maybe it was the rosary being found and disturbed that triggered the ghosts, and now it’s just not as much of a sore point. Which is great, he guesses. But it still doesn’t tell him what’s tethering those ghosts here.

Well. It said they were posthumously excommunicated and then cremated, but hey. Maybe whoever got them nice and toasty did a shitty job and there’s something left. Who the hell knows.

Shaking his head, Dean trudges across the frozen lawn, avoiding the patches of wet, slushy snow that are still sticking around. Maybe he missed something last time; he didn’t get all the way through the cemetery before he got interrupted.

Which… yeah. That guy he met yesterday might end up being a problem, he muses as he reaches the neat rows of stones and heads over to where he stopped before. He’s friendly, but he also seems like he’s around the grounds a fair bit. Dean’ll have to be careful not to draw too much attention to himself, because even if the priest and Mr. Brown were easily fooled by vague assertions about extra credit, Dean doubts this guy’d accept it for long. 

(Josh. His name is Josh.)

But then one of the lights on the EMF meter flickers on and back off, so quickly that Dean almost misses it. He stops dead in his tracks, excitement flooding through him. It was the light furthest to the right. Slowly, he turns and starts walking in that direction, sweeping his meter back and forth. It lights up more with every step he takes.

He’s walking straight towards the mausoleum, a pale stone number modelled after a Greek temple or some shit. Oh, _please_ let it be coming from the mausoleum. He might not actually have to _dig,_ which with the still mostly-frozen ground? That’d be a _godsend._

The EMF is lit up solid red, and oh yeah. It’s definitely the mausoleum. Dean stands in front of the door, stifling the urge to let out a triumphant whoop and maybe punch the air a couple times. Hell yeah, _this_ is what he was lookin’ for. _Jackpot._

...But.

This— this doesn’t make any sense. Dean’s grin fades, and he pockets his meter as he regards the mausoleum. Dad said he’d be looking for something owned by one or both of the sisters, like a Bible or a photo. It’s why he’d been so excited about the rosary— it fitted the profile perfectly. So why the hell is he getting the mother of all EMF readings from this mausoleum? There’s no good reason why the sisters would even be _in_ there: their ashes were supposed to have been buried in the unconsecrated ground of the cemetery’s potter’s field. So… what the _fuck?_

Dammit. Maybe this isn’t as simple as he thought it was.

“Well, look who it is. Back to bumming around the cemetery, I see. How’s it feel to be a nerd, Winchester?”

Dean looks up, shaking off his disquiet as the guy from yesterday _(Josh)_ saunters towards him. The corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up into a grin despite the confusing twist of his stomach. “Says the guy wearing a polo shirt. Seriously, they can’t be paying you enough to make _that_ okay.”

“Damn,” Josh says in mock affront. “Low blow, coming from an amateur historian.”

Dean can’t help but smile ruefully. “Yeah. Emphasis on the ‘amateur’.” At Josh’s raised eyebrow, Dean shrugs, choosing his words carefully. “Research isn’t going so hot, that’s all. And I need something to show before my dad picks me up on Monday.”

Josh shrugs. “What is it you’re lookin’ for? I’ve lived here my whole life, unfortunately. I know all the stories.”

Dean looks at him with new interest. “Really?” Maybe… kids always have ghost stories they trade on the schoolyard, local legends and half-remembered murders. _Especially_ small-town kids. And Dean’s been around the block enough times to know that more often than you’d think, they’re not spouting complete bullshit. Far from it. 

He considers Josh a little more closely. “You might actually be able to help me out, then.”

Josh waves him along, and Dean follows as they walk back over to where Josh’s wheelbarrow is. “Maybe. Depends on what it is you need help with, I guess,” he says, winking slyly at Dean over his shoulder.

Dean stutters to a halt, startled. Uh…

Is Josh… flirting? With _him?_

Josh pauses, like he’s only just realized what he said, and his face goes pale. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, I was just— I didn’t mean—”

Dean shakes his head fervently. “No! No, it’s… it’s fine.” He swallows around his suddenly dry mouth. “No problem. I don’t have a problem.”

Josh just looks at him for a second. Then slowly, he relaxes, his expression warming again. He raises an eyebrow. “Cool. Got it. So, whaddya wanna know?”

Dean starts walking again, thrown off on every level he can think of. “Well, uh, Father O’Reilly was great, he had a lot of good info. But I read this crazy news story not too long ago about some dude who—”

Josh laughs. “You mean the one about Mr. Brown? Honestly, he was the last guy I’d have expected to blame ghosts for tripping over his mop or something.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, letting out a little laugh. “Yeah, that one. Wasn’t there something in there about some suicidal nuns, too? That’s some real Exorcist III shit right there.”

Josh grabs the handles of his wheelbarrow and lifts it up, giving Dean a deliberate once-over as he does. “Tell you what. I’ve gotta do some more actual work right now, but... if you meet me at the diner at six, I’ll tell you over a burger. Lucy’s, just off Main Street. Sound good?”

Dean blinks, a stab of fear following right on the heels of his surprise; he... he shouldn’t. Saying Dad wouldn’t like it, especially after this whole conversation that’s just happened, is pretty much the understatement to end all understatements. If he found out— shit. That’s. No. Dean’s still on pretty thin ice from the whole ‘shoplifting and getting sent to a group home’ thing, he can’t afford another mark against him. Honestly, he’s completely floored that Dad gave him this hunt at all. If he screws this up…

But then again, it’s not— it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. He’s just talking to a local who might have some insight on the case. That’s what they _do._ He’s just covering all his bases.

And… Dad’s not here, is he?

He grins shakily, the butterflies from yesterday multiplying into a whole ass flock. “Deal. I’ll see you then.”

— - —

In the two and a half hours or so between when Dean gets back to his motel room and the six o’clock deadline, he decides he’s not gonna show up for the meeting _(date)(NOT A DATE SHUT UP)_ a grand total of three times. 

The first time is pretty much right after he drops his bag onto the dingy comforter of his bed. Because, he thinks, a low hum of panic zipping through him, he’s not… he’s not a _queer._ Josh was flirting with him back there, he’s not blind or stupid. Showing up tonight would be _saying_ something, and he— that’s not _him._ No. Not even a little. He sees the way the girls in all his classes look at him: they think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. He likes it, likes _them._ Girls are awesome.

And c’mon, it’s not even a sure thing that Josh has any information on the case. Dean’s just running on a hunch that he’s got _something._ There’s no certainty here whatsoever.

 _He’s definitely got nice hair, though,_ Dean thinks absently. Longer than Dean’s has ever been on top but short on the sides. Sort of golden-blond, likes to flop in front of his eyes. 

It’s kinda cute.

The second time he decides he’s not gonna go is after he’s spent a good fifteen minutes staring at himself in the mirror, wondering if maybe he should change. Different flannel? Different shirt? No, he decides, _no._ That’s stupid. It’s just a couple guys getting burgers. Dad stops in at bars to chat about cases all the time, and he doesn’t _preen_ about it beforehand. 

God. Dean lets out a slightly hysterical laugh at the thought of the words “Dad” and “preen” being used within a hundred miles of each other. Dad doesn’t _preen._ God no, and neither should Dean. Neither _is_ Dean.

He’s being crazy. This whole _thing_ is crazy. This is valuable time, time he could be spending at the Mission checking out that reading he got from the mausoleum. He’ll know exactly where Josh is, which makes this a perfect opportunity to do what he needs to do without having to watch over his shoulder for people as well as ghosts.

…And yet. He seriously still doesn’t know jack about what’s going on here, he needs more than an EMF reading to build a case around. Dad’s always telling him not to go into things half-cocked because he thinks he’s got everything figured out, and a reading that strong during the day means there’s probably some major shit that goes down at night. It’d be the epitome of stupid to waltz in there, thinking he’d be fine, just because he’s Dean fucking Winchester. _(Although,_ he thinks with a small grin, _that’s a pretty damn compelling argument. I should use that sometime.)_ He’d be doing the smart thing by going to this meeting. Scoping out all the possible angles before committing to a salt n’ burn that’s looking more and more complex every day. Maybe he will go.

The third and final time is as he’s sitting in the cab of his truck, parked outside the diner and trying to get rid of the jittery, nauseous feeling roiling in his stomach. This is… why’s he even nervous? This is _dumb._ Josh probably isn’t even gonna be here. Dean knows his type: straight A’s, on the student parliament, helps out with all the fundraisers. Probably has an equally preppy girlfriend he waltzes around kissing puppies and exchanging doe-eyes with. He was just messing with the weird kid from out of town who was hanging around the cemetery like a freak. 

And Dean _is_ a freak, he knows that. When he’s feeling charitable he might switch that label out for “badass”, or even “bad boy” depending on the audience, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He’s the disrupter, the outsider, the one the girls hang out with to piss off their parents. Who looks at him and thinks he’s good news? No one. 

Well, no one but Sam, but Sam’s different. He’s _family._ And he’s a Winchester too, so he’s at least as much of a freak as Dean is. Maybe a little bit less— he’s always tried to be normal. 

Dean’s always known that’s not an option.

Anyways. He’d better just go back to the motel, maybe hit the library again. He might’ve missed something. He doesn’t need whatever crap Josh might be able to spout, if the guy’s even in there at all. Which he probably isn’t.

There’s a tap against the window, and Dean jumps violently, startled out of his thoughts. Josh grins at him through the window, his jacket zipped all the way up against the chill, and Dean hastily rearranges his face out of the pinched scowl he knows he’s got goin’ on as he rolls down the window. Josh huffs, his breath puffing white into the air. 

“Hey, Dean. You wanna go inside? I’m starving.”

Dean grins weakly. “Yeah, sounds great.”

Crap.

— - —

Years of near-constant movement, of never really settling anywhere for long, have taught Dean a lot of things. One of the biggest ones, though, is finding familiarity in unexpected places. 

The two-lane roads that make you feel like you’ve never driven anywhere else. The constant, soothing lullaby of the Impala’s engine. The greasy spoon joints that pop up like clockwork every few hundred miles, advertising hot coffee, pie à la mode, and cheeseburgers that definitely look better than they taste. 

Lucy’s is one of those places. And as Dean slides into the cracked red booth, like he has a thousand times before in a thousand same-but-not-quite diners just like this, the nerves jangling through his veins subside to a much more manageable level.

Except that instead of Dad sitting across from him, growling at Sam to eat his eggs, it’s a blond high school senior who Dean doesn’t know from Adam. A high school senior who is currently grinning at him with a twinkle in his eyes and cheeks that are still flushed bright red from the cold.

Dean clears his throat. “So, what’s good here? Anything gonna give me food poisoning?”

Josh laughs. “Long as you avoid the sandwiches in the case at the front, you’re fine. The burgers aren’t bad, and the fries are good. The milkshakes, though,” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow, “are to _die_ for.”

Dean grins back. “Good to know. But the most important question is, how’s their pie?”

A wink. “Almost as good as the milkshakes.”

Despite Josh’s ringing endorsement, when the waitress comes over to interrupt their discussion about the tinny pop piping through the speakers, Dean forgoes the milkshake in favour of a slice of apple pie. Josh rolls his eyes and orders a chocolate milkshake with the air of someone making the far superior choice.

With the waitress retreating to the kitchen, he interlaces his fingers and leans his elbows on the table. “So you wanted to know about the suicidal ghost nuns, huh?” Josh grins. “Not that your hatred of Whitney Houston isn’t hilarious, but I did promise you a scary story.”

Dean hopes his snort of laughter covers the surge of excitement that spikes through him. Here we go. “Anything to distract me from the screeching, dude. Spill.”

“Alright, here goes.” Josh looks Dean straight in the eyes, dropping his voice to a spooky whisper. “This story has been passed down from snot-nosed fifth graders to snot-nosed fourth graders at Riverton Elementary for centuries. Decades. Okay, years. But it’s been passed down as a dire warning to stay away from the cemetery up at the Mission. Why, you ask? It’s _haunted.”_

All he’s missing is the flashlight under his chin, and he’d fit right in at a slumber party. Dean hides a grin behind his hand and cocks an eyebrow. “Wow, I dunno if I can handle this. Gonna give me nightmares for weeks.”

Josh drops the voice, his smile returning. “Well, we can’t have that. I guess I can just give you the highlights.”

Dean gestures for him to continue, not quite able to get rid of the persistent little smile hanging around his lips.

Josh shrugs. “The one I always heard was that there were a couple of nuns. Don’t really know when, just that there were two of them. And they were in love.” At Dean’s badly hidden eye roll, Josh holds up a hand in allowance. “Or something like it, whatever. Anyways, the official story was that they got caught, and they were so ashamed that they killed themselves. The end. That’s the one that ended up in that article.”

“But?” Dean prompts, sensing something more.

Josh grins. “Exactly. And you were all down in the dumps because you’re an amateur. Unbelievable.”

Dean rolls his eyes, his ears heating a little. “Yeah, yeah, shuddup about me. Get a move on with the ghost nuns.”

“Ask and you shall receive.” Josh leans back. “The _unofficial_ set of events is a little different. Still two nuns, still in love. But they didn’t kill themselves.”

The waitress arrives with their burgers at this point, but Dean barely pays any attention to her as she sets their meals down in front of them. He’s staring at Josh, his mind racing. Murder, maybe? That… that changes everything.

The burger does smell pretty good, though, and Dean doesn’t claim to be good at staying the intrepid researcher when food comes into the picture. So he doesn’t actually get around to asking Josh what he meant until after he’s halfway through said burger.

Oops. He sets it down. “So what, someone else ganked ‘em? You can’t leave me hanging like that, man.”

Josh smiles, popping a fry into his mouth. “The story the kids like to tell is that the Mother Superior at the time was a real piece of work, y’know? And when she found out about those two, she exposed them. But that wasn’t enough. So she killed them, made it look like an accident, then had their ashes buried next to her when she died so she could keep an eye on them for eternity. She haunts the cemetery to this day, ready to murder any kids who go sneaking around in cold blood.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Damn. Pretty gruesome. You ever see anything?”

Josh laughs. “Oh, all the time. I chat with the ghost nuns every day on my lunch break.” 

Dean joins in with the laughter and files that story away for later. He’d be willing to bet good money that he knows exactly where the Mother Superior’s buried.

To blow outta here now, though, would be as suspicious as Dean could get. So Dean picks his burger back up and grins playfully. “Yeah, I bet they had some great ideas for your college applications.”

Josh groans, throwing his head back, and launches into an emphatic tale about the trials and tribulations of applying for higher education, just like Dean’d hoped he would. Far from giving himself a conversational out, though, Dean finds that he’s just as engaged as he was earlier, if not even more so now that work’s off the table. The way Josh tells it is _funny,_ and even though the only thing the stories of creeping deadlines and extra credit projects from hell are doing is convincing Dean that he’d rather have a root canal without anaesthetic than go through all that bullshit himself, the guy’s obviously excited about it.

So Dean _has_ to ask what he wants to get a degree for. It’d be rude not to, right?

And they just… talk. While they eat the rest of their food, the conversation ranges far and wide, touching on everything from their respective music tastes (Josh has the nerve to _laugh_ while Dean is dying, because this guy just said his favourite band is the fucking _Backstreet Boys_ and _killed him,_ what the _fuck)_ to the best pranks they’ve ever pulled on their siblings (Dean’s in _stitches_ by the time Josh is done telling him about a complicated revenge scheme on his little sister involving an honest-to-god _chicken_ and a bucket of motor oil. God, he _has_ to try something like that next time Sam pisses him off) _._

Finally, Dean gets his laughter under control and pulls his plate of pie towards him. “Shit, man. That’s _awesome._ You win, my toothpaste thing had nothing on that.”

Josh toasts him with his milkshake. “I am the prank-meister. Bow before me.” Then he takes a triumphant slurp through the straw, and Dean makes a herculean effort not to stare at his mouth.

He’s not sure he succeeded, though, because Josh has a teasing glint in his eye. “Like what you see?”

Dean chokes on his pie. _“What?”_ he coughs, his eyes watering.

Josh smiles innocently. “The milkshake. I told you it was good.” He slides it across to Dean, nodding encouragingly. “I was gonna let you suffer in ignorance, but Lucy’s milkshakes are too good not to share. Go on, try it.”

Now, Dean has a smorgasbord of options here. He could say no. He could say he doesn’t like chocolate, even though that’d be a fucking lie. He could pick up the glass and try not to get poked in the eye by the straw while he takes a drink from the rim like a normal person.

Apparently, though, he is not a normal person. Which he knew, but. Not even a little bit. It’s probably more accurate to say he’s brain dead, actually. Because without even thinking about it, he just. Wraps his lips around the straw and takes a drink.

The straw that Josh just had in his mouth. The mouth it’s been getting harder and harder for Dean to stop looking at all night. The mouth that is now grinning, like that’s exactly what Josh was hoping for, and Dean. Dean is dead.

It’s a really good milkshake.

He passes the glass back, clearing his throat and hoping to god that the flush he feels heating his face isn’t half as bad as he thinks it is. “Yeah, um. It’s. Good. Really good.”

Dean goes back to his pie, ignoring Josh’s self-satisfied grin with everything he’s got. He also ignores the way that as Josh starts rambling about some stupid thing he had to do for Father O’Reilly the other day, he nibbles the end of the straw between his teeth, pausing every couple sentences to take another sip.

Dean’s face feels like it’s back to its normal colour, at least, by the time the waitress drops by with their bills. He counts out the money from his wallet while Josh does the same, and with that done, they get up and head towards the door.

Josh puts his hands in his pockets, giving Dean a smile. “That was fun, dude, it’s been a while since I got to relax.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, it was.” It surprises him, because it’s not even a lie. He did have fun. “Same here, honestly.”

They stand there for a second, just looking at each other.

“You want a ride home?”

Josh grins. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

Dean’s stomach gives a delighted little shimmy, and he gestures to the truck. They walk over in silence, Dean getting into the driver’s seat and Josh skirting around the front bumper to slide into the passenger side. 

Then Josh shuts his door behind him, and suddenly the tension that had been floating nebulously between them in the parking lot is thick enough to cut. Josh looks around the interior of the truck. “You buy this thing yourself? It’s kinda…”

“Shitty, I know,” Dean says. “You don’t have to sugar-coat it. This thing is a couple thousand miles from falling apart, it smells like a smoker’s ass, and there are stains on the seats I really don’t wanna think about too hard.” He pats the dash. “It’s mine, though. So there’s that.”

Josh looks at him, a faint, soft smile on his lips. Dean hopes the semi-darkness is hiding his blush. “So, uh. Ride home. What’s your address?”

“Dean,” Josh says slowly, turning a little more to face him head-on. “Before I tell you, I wanna ask you a question, okay? And if you could do me a solid and not punch me for it, I’d really appreciate that.”

Dean can’t look away from Josh’s dark eyes, soft and steady in the dim red glow of the diner’s neon sign. He clears his throat quietly, shifting in his seat. “Well, I’m not… I’m not makin’ any promises. But I, uh. I can try.” He laughs shakily. “Wouldn’t wanna mess up that pretty face a’ yours.”

Josh’s smile is mesmerizing. Dean’s gaze lingers on his lips for a second too long; he knows Josh must’ve seen.

The cab of the truck is close, self-contained. A warm little bubble. Dean’s heart lurches into second gear.

“I’ll take that, I guess,” Josh says. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “So.”

“So,” Dean replies, matching Josh’s volume. Almost without meaning to, he moves a bit closer. “Ask away.”

Josh’s grin grows a shade more, and Dean feels the hesitant tug of fingers at his sleeve. “Can I kiss you?”

Dean swallows, eyes widening. Something pulls in his stomach. “Uh. I mean, I’m not… I’m not— gay.”

“Oh, obviously not,” Josh agrees pleasantly in that same low voice. His fingers brush the bare skin of Dean’s wrist, and Dean shivers. 

“But you… you’re a nice guy. You’ve… you’ve got a really nice smile, y’know that?” Josh rewards him with that very thing, and the butterflies that seem to have taken up permanent residence in Dean’s stomach come to life. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that. So. I guess, if… if you really wanted to…” He wets his lips, watches Josh follow the movement. “You, uh. You could.”

They’re a lot closer now. Josh meets Dean’s eyes again. “So that’s a yes?”

Their noses brush, and Dean reaches out to brace himself on the dash. “Yeah, I… yes.”

Josh’s hand curls gently around Dean’s wrist. Slowly, carefully, he leans in the final few inches, his breath warm against Dean’s skin, and…

His lips are startlingly soft against Dean’s. No different from any of the girls he’s ever kissed. None of them smelled like warm, spicy aftershave, though. And none of them were ever quite this gentle.

After only a moment Josh pulls back, barely a breath between them, and Dean blinks his eyes open. He doesn’t remember closing them. Josh watches him carefully, his hand still on Dean’s wrist. “Was that alright?”

Dean doesn’t bother responding. He just kisses him again.

His hand lands on Josh’s thigh as he leans over the gear shift, and it sends a bolt of the bad kind of adrenaline through him that almost makes him jump away. But then Josh’s free hand settles on Dean’s neck, he tilts his head just so, and _oh._

That’s _good._

This isn’t the chaste press of lips it was the first time— not since Dean came back for more. Josh responds to his enthusiasm in kind, and they’re both breathing hard by the time they finally part again. Dean doesn’t draw back very far, though: just enough to let his eyes roam freely over Josh’s face. He feels a little punch-drunk, a little like he does whenever there’s a closer-than-comfortable call on a hunt. 

He kinda likes it.

Josh pushes his hair back out of his eyes and grins, surveying Dean. “That looks uncomfortable,” he says slowly. “There’s gotta be a better way to do this, don’t you think?”

Dean shrugs, ignoring the pull in his shoulders from the weird twist he’s doing. It’s pretty easy, though, because he’s more than a little distracted by the fact that Josh still tastes like chocolate. “Yeah, well. Cars ain’t easy places to get comfortable.”

Josh shakes his head, putting a hand on Dean’s chest and giving him a gentle push back into his own seat. “By which I mean, I _know_ there’s a better way to do this.” He uses the extra space he’s given himself to shrug off his jacket, which he tosses up onto the dash. Then he grins at Dean again, and Dean’s breath sticks in his throat. “We could always share a seat. You wanna come over here, or should I come over there?”

“You—” Dean starts, his mouth gone dry. He imagines climbing over the gear shift box and settling onto Josh’s lap, his back to the windshield. Unable to see what’s coming.

But the thought of _that_ definitely inspires a whole lot more _hell no_ than _hell yeah._

It must show on his face, because Josh puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey. You still good? If you want, we can stop.”

“No, I— I just—” Dean shuts his mouth. Considers it for a second. Then, reaching down beside his seat, he yanks hard on the creaky lever and slides the seat back as far as it’ll go, leaving a comically large gap between him, the steering wheel, and the pedals. He couldn’t drive from back here if he _tried._

Then he reaches out, grabs Josh’s hand, and looks determinedly at his shoulder. “You can… you can come over here. I— want you to come over here.”

Josh doesn’t move. “You sure?” 

Dean swallows, giving the hand in his a squeeze. “Yeah. Now c’mon, hurry it up. I’m gettin’ cold.”

“Alright, alright. Impatient.” 

So, after a lot of awkward clambering, a near miss between Josh’s elbow and Dean’s chin, and what feels like far too many limbs crammed into not enough space, Dean finally has a lap full of smiley blond guy. Which was a great idea, holy shit. He says so, then feels his face heat. Josh laughs softly.

“There’s no one like you around here, Dean.”

Dean grins up at him, his pulse stuttering, and hooks his fingers loosely through Josh’s belt loops. “You’re not so average yourself, pal.”

Then Josh kisses him again, and talking is suddenly the last thing on Dean’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I can't guarantee that the next update will be regular, but I've been freed from the chains of _Modern Warfare,_ so I should be able to make some good progress lol. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! I'd love to scream about Josh with you in the comments!!


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! So, it's been a while, huh. Lol. The writer's block has been aggressive with this story, but I think I've finally broken through. Anyways, this chapter is some nice filler stuff as a reward for your patience and love so far. We have:  
> \- Yet another amazing ABC poem from [InkOfEmrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkOfEmrys/pseuds/InkOfEmrys), like the one they also wrote for Modern Warfare!  
> \- A little extra snippet of Dean and Josh cuteness, because I cannot control myself  
> \- And finally, a painting of Josh by yours truly! I had so much fun making this, he's literally my son. Baby. Babyyyyy.
> 
> You can probably expect a real update in the next week or so (or maybe earlier, who knows), so for now, enjoy!

Apple pie is sitting in front of me and so normally I'd never look away,

But somehow the

Cinnamon tastes even sweeter when I'm connecting it to the color of your eyes, or wondering if those are really

Dimples on your cheeks, catching my gaze and dancing along with your laughter.

Ever notice that you know how to take the act of drinking a milkshake and make it magic? letting the

Froth dither just long enough over your lips to make me wet my own, and then wish that our mouths were together (even though I've never felt like this before).

God, you're beautiful, the way your

Hair shines in the diner lights; the way

It makes me want to

Just run my fingers through it and then pull you close to me.

Kismet that we met like this, isn't it? When all I wanted was information, and what you gave me instead with 

Little more than a look was

Monumental, was butterflies in my stomach.

No one could get me to focus on anything else but that

Opalescent smile, that

Peony-soft wink that makes my heart melt whenever you gift it to me.

Quizzical, how fast I get dizzy when you're around.

Remember where we first met? the

Soft licks of mist that curled at your heels in that graveyard; a place where things go to die, but I found something coming

To life inside of me.

Unilateral, your effect on me is anything but; the

Violent pulse of my heart in my chest and the

Way you almost cup it in your hands, giving rise to feelings that always seemed so

Xenogenic.

You changed my world with a single milkshake, when you whispered that together we're

Zygomorphic; two halves of a whole.

I think I might love you.

I hope I never stop believing that when we're together.

_“You’ve got a word stuck in my head.”_

_Dean blinks, then grins. “What is it? Awesome? Uh. Irresistible?”_

_Josh laughs, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind Dean's ear. “Both applicable. But no,” he whispers. “The word is ‘zygomorphic’.”_

_The back of Dean's head hits the headrest as Josh drops his mouth to Dean's neck. “What,” he says breathlessly, “What, uh. Does that mean?”_

_“It's biology,” Josh murmurs against Dean's skin. “Basically, symmetrical division. Two halves of a whole.”_

_Dean huffs a laugh. “Nerd,” he says, way more fondly than he has any reason to, hands sweeping up Josh's back._

_“Hey, at least I’m not serenading you with ‘We’ve Got It Goin’ On’,” he teases, fingers dragging ticklishly down Dean’s ribs. “I’m tellin’ you, the Backstreet Boys are gonna be hot stuff. Just you wait and see.”_

_“Yeah, right,” Dean laughs, trying to squirm away from Josh’s hands. “Is that before or after hell freezes over?”_

_“Oh, just shut up and kiss me.”_

_It’s a good idea. So Dean does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very important question: what is Dean and Josh's ship name? Jean? Dosh? Honestly both of those are pretty bad, if you've got a better one slap that boi down in the comments and I'll give shoutout next chapter if there are any really good ones. 
> 
> Love y'all,  
> Nep


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We're in the endgame now..._
> 
> LMAO I couldn't resist. But seriously, things are definitely getting exciting this chapter. I think there'll probably be two more, but we'll see. I'm not exactly sure because, uh. I don't have them completely written yet. But that's fine! It's a surprise!
> 
> A little shoutout: [InkOfEmrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkOfEmrys/pseuds/InkOfEmrys) supplied me with the song "Mama" by Clean Bandit ft. Ellie Goulding, which really helped me work out how Dean was feeling at one point. So, uh. You can blame them for any emotional damages incurred by this chapter. :)
> 
> Anyways. Enjoy.
> 
> **TW: homophobic language**

**_January 29th_ **

Dean buries his head in his arms with a groan.

He’s trying to do research on the Mother Superior. Y'know, maybe find out what she was like during life, make sure she really is buried in the mausoleum. But all he can think about is _last night._

He still can’t believe that actually happened. It feels like a damn fever dream or something, heady and unreal, lit by the glow of the diner’s neon sign. _(Thighs pressed against his, knees bracketing his hips. Hands gliding down his chest, the drag of teeth over his bottom lip, warm, quiet sounds breathed into his ear.)_

Shit, this— the library is _not_ the place for this, goddammit.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he sits up and tries to pay attention again. It takes him way too long, but he eventually gets what he needs: the Mother Superior’s obituary, and some church records for the cemetery. She’s definitely buried there, and despite the flowery, effusive language of the obituary, Dean can read between the lines well enough to see that Josh’s assessment of her was probably right. ‘Piece of work’ seems generous, honestly.

He wonders, as he walks out of the library, if he should take Josh up on the offer he made last night. When Dean had finally dropped him off, Josh had looked over at him with a lopsided grin on his face. “Well,” he’d said. “You know where I live now. I’m not working tomorrow, so, y’know. If you’re not too busy getting that research all pulled together, I wouldn’t mind hanging out again.”

A giddy little smile had snuck onto Dean’s face. “I’ll, uh. I’ll think about it.” 

His eyes had flicked to Josh’s mouth again, and Josh had grinned before leaning in to give him a last, glorious kiss. “One for the road, then. I hope I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s got nothing to do for the rest of the day. He can’t break into the mausoleum before nightfall, so he’s got at least four or five hours to kill, and all he has to do to get ready for the hunt is make sure he’s got salt rounds, his crowbar, the kerosene, and his Zippo. That’ll take him all of five minutes to pull together.

He doesn’t head over right away, though. He goes to Lucy’s, has some lunch, and then heads back to the motel. Bums around, makes sure his shit’s together. Watches some stupid drama on the TV.

It’s almost three o’clock by the time Dean finally heads back out to his truck. He sings along to the radio as he drives, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe he and Josh can grab burgers again. _(Or maybe,_ a tiny, quiet part of him hedges, _you can find a back road and turn the truck off for a while.)_

Dean grins.

He’s just pulled up to Josh’s house when his pocket buzzes, and the tinny, electronic chime of his phone is like a bucket of ice water upended over his head. 

He fumbles it out of his pocket and answers. “Hello?”

“Dean, it’s me. Where are you on the case?”

Dean swallows, staring unseeingly out through the windshield, back ramrod straight. “It’s going good, Dad. I’m gonna do the salt and burn tonight.”

Dad’s hum of approval is crackly through the cheap speaker. “So what’s the anchor?”

“It’s, uh... it’s inside a mausoleum in the cemetery. But it— it’s, um, a rosary.” Dean doesn’t really know why he’s lying, but he— he can’t. Can’t explain.

“You sure about that?” Dad asks, his voice going gruff and serious. “You better not be running headfirst into somethin’ you don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I got a couple locals to talk and did some research.” Dean’s heart is pounding. He… fuck, why is lying to Dad this easy? It shouldn’t be this easy. He should be telling Dad about the Mother Superior. 

He knows he’s not going to.

“Alright,” Dad says reservedly. “Well, I’ll be there tomorrow night to pick you up. We’ll ditch the truck, you won’t need it anymore.”

“Sure,” Dean agrees. “See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t get yourself killed,” is Dad’s response. Then he hangs up.

Dean doesn’t lower the phone from his ear. He. He just _lied._ To _Dad._ And he can’t figure out why the fuck he did it.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye makes him look sharply out the window. Josh is standing in the open door of his house as he shrugs his coat on. He smiles at Dean, then holds up a hand in greeting.

Dean peels the fuck out of there as fast as he can.

— - —

Fuck. _Fuck._

Dean slams the door of his motel room shut behind him, leaning back against the sticky wood and running his hands over his face. He just drove to a guy’s house because they _kissed_ yesterday and he _lied to Dad about the case._ Fucking christ, what is _wrong_ with him?

He doesn’t have to guess what Dad’d do if he knew, if he found out about _either_ of these big fucking transgressions — he’s familiar enough with Dad’s anger that the image in his head is so sharp and clear it’s almost like he’s standing right in front of Dean.

 _What do you think this is?_ He’d snarl, hand vise-tight on Dean’s arm. _You think this is some kinda_ game? _This is life and death, Dean, there are people who are gonna_ die _if you don’t do your fuckin’ job. And when the bodies start piling up, whose fault is that gonna be, huh?_

Then he’d drop Dean’s arm in disgust, looking down his nose at him like he couldn’t believe the disappointment before him was his son. _And don’t think I don’t know about that boy,_ he’d hiss. _What the hell is wrong with you? I didn’t raise a fuckin’ queer. You_ ever _pull that again, and you’ll be out on your ass so fast your head spins._

Dean chokes back a sob and pushes away from the door. What the hell _is_ wrong with him? Christ, he— he _enjoyed_ last night. He _liked_ Josh’s strength, the size of his hands, the spicy cologne he’d been wearing. But he’s— he’s _not_ gay, he can’t be. Doesn’t _want_ to be. No. He’s—

A blaze of anger rolls through him. Who does Josh think he is? Confusing Dean, making him want things he shouldn’t, honestly, this fuckin’ guy—

Suddenly, though, Dean just deflates. 

That’s not fair. Josh… Josh _asked._ More than once. 

And Dean said yes. 

This is on him.

He slumps down onto the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. This is his fault. He’s— he doesn’t want to be broken. He doesn’t _feel_ broken. But— he must be. Normal guys don’t like other guys. And he doesn’t— fuck, he knows he should regret last night.

He can’t make himself do it.

His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists and wills them to go still.

He just… he just has to finish this case. Then he can leave all this crap here in Riverton and go back to being Sam’s brother. Go back to being a good son. He just has to finish this hunt, and then he can forget this.

That’s all he’s gotta do.

— - —

He only waits until seven o’clock to go down to the cemetery.

On a hunt with Dad they usually wait until ten or eleven at night at the very least, but Dean just wants to get this over with. Besides, it’s still winter; it’s already been full dark for an hour, and the only people up at the Mission are a couple of old nuns and the priest. It’s not like they’re gonna be out and about. It’ll be fine.

He’s weirdly nervous as he drives up. There’s a disquieted thrum somewhere in the pit of his stomach, one that spreads insidious tendrils of anxiety through his limbs. He doesn’t like it, and he has no idea what it’s from.

Must be because the Mother Superior seems like she’s gonna be a handful. Yeah.

He turns his lights out before he gets within view of the Mission and parks near the cemetery, on the opposite side from the priest’s house. Still pretty close to the mausoleum, but a lot better for the getaway when he’s done.

It’s cold. The air stings his cheeks as he gets out of the car, grabbing his duffle from the space behind the seats and shouldering it as he walks across the hard, frosty grass. He pulls his EMF meter out of his pocket and flicks it on once he’s standing in front of the door: the whole row of lights glows a harsh, cherry red. It’s not gonna be any more use from here on out, so he turns it off and puts it away.

Picking the lock isn’t hard; he holds a penlight in his mouth and gets it done in two minutes, tops, even with his gloves on. He pulls the crowbar out of his bag, holding it tightly as he takes a breath and sets his jaw. 

He’s Dean fucking Winchester. He can do this.

He pushes the double doors open, crowbar at the ready. Nothing. No nun-types leaping out of the shadows, no suspicious sounds. He steps inside on stealthy feet, setting his bag down to wedge one of the doors open. The shotgun inside clanks dully against the stone flagstones as he shoves it into place. 

This is an old building, not one of the fancy new ones: Dean shines his flashlight around to see the individual tombs lined up on each side of the centre aisle, the pale stone glowing faintly where the light hits it. There are inscriptions on top of each tomb, so he’ll have to check them one by one to find the Mother Superior’s. Agnes Johnson, died 1978. He stops for a moment to dig the salt and the kerosene out of the duffle, shoving them into the deep pockets of his coat for easy access later on.

There’s still no hint of activity: no drop in temperature, no apparitions, nothing being thrown around. Hopefully the old biddy won’t even notice he’s here until she’s flaming out, but even if she does, it shouldn’t be a problem. He’s got his crowbar, and his shotgun if things get really bad.

There are six tombs, so Dean starts at the closest one and shines his light at the inscription on the top: nope. This one’s old, way older than he needs. He gives the second one a cursory look before heading on to the last one in the row, near the back of the room.

“There you are,” he mutters as he reads the name. Putting the light between his teeth, he wedges his crowbar under the lid of the tomb and starts working it open, little by little.

He’s been working for a few minutes, sweat starting to bead in a clammy sheen at his temples, when he hears it.

_Unrepentant sinner._

Dean whips around, adrenaline spiking through him as he holds his crowbar at the ready. His breath starts coming in clouds, fogging up as the air cools even further. He can’t… he can’t tell where that came from.

He spares a look back towards the tomb and grimaces. He still needs to give it a few good pushes before it’s open wide enough to start the fire. But until he can whack this bitch with some iron and banish her for a bit he doesn’t dare let his guard down.

A breeze ruffles his hair, an unnatural wind that makes him tighten his grip. “Hey, who’re you callin’ a sinner? Rude.” He shrugs in false nonchalance. “‘Unrepentant’, though, you’re on the money there.”

There’s something angry about the way some dry leaves rustle across the floor in the corner. _I know your thoughtsss, boy. You are a degenerate._

Dean’s stomach jerks. No. She can’t… she doesn’t know. She’s just a vengeful spirit.

He swings at a shadow that coalesces in his peripheral, and a hiss echoes through the mausoleum. He nicked her, then. He takes the opportunity to wedge his crowbar into the gap between the lid and the tomb and give it a good shove.

The door not held open by his bag slams shut, bouncing back and swinging in place. _You dare defile my resting place?_

Dean chances another shove before putting his crowbar back up. “Sorry, not sorry.”

An incensed round of muttering thrums through the room, emanating from everywhere at once. Crap. Dean looks around, his head darting this way and that as he searches for a shadow, an apparition, anything.

 _Disgusting little deviant,_ the voice growls, behind Dean, then in the corner, then over near the door. _You will burn in Hell for your perversion._

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean barks, hating how much his voice trembles as he tightens his grip on the crowbar. “You don’t know me.”

The breeze whips up into a wind, tugging at Dean’s coat as the voice rises to an enraged screech. _Do not LIE TO ME. I SEE YOUR SHAMEFUL DESIRES. YOU ARE AN ABOMINATION, AN AFFRONT AGAINST GOD’S LAW!_

And with that the ghost of the Mother Superior materializes, rushing towards him with claw-like hands and dark, sunken eyes that burn with hate. Dean swings the crowbar, yelling defiantly, and she dissipates into a blast of frigid air as the cold iron slices through her.

He turns back to the tomb, shaking, and is about to give the lid a good, hard shove when he hears something bad. Something really, really bad.

“Dean? Dean, what the _hell_ was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I forget to mention the cliffhanger? Oops. Guess you'll have to wait 'til next time to find out what goes down. (:<


	6. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, _so._ BIG shoutout to my awesome friend [InkOfEmrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkOfEmrys/pseuds/InkOfEmrys) for doing me a huge solid and beta-ing this chapter. They are literally the only reason why the action at the beginning is not hugely dissatisfying, confusing, and reminiscent of being slapped across the face many times with a wet fish. Seriously, it was pretty bad before I got feedback. I'm much happier with it now, lol.
> 
> On that note, go check out InkOfEmrys' incredible fic To Be Angelic if you haven't already! It just hit 100k words, and we are SO PROUD. It's literally amazing, I'm serious. You might not know this right now, but rest assured, you _need_ Seraph!Dean in your life. And you get lots of Destiel and now Saileen as well! It's a win-win, honestly. Just. Go. _Reeeeaaaaad._
> 
> That's all I have for now, so I hope you enjoy the resolution to last chapter's cliffhanger!

“Dean? Dean, what the  _ hell _ was that?”

Dean whirls around, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and his stomach drops a good foot as he sees who it is. “Josh, what— you need to get outta here,  _ now.” _

“Like hell I am,” Josh spits angrily, planting his feet firmly on the stone. “Not until you tell me what the  _ fuck _ that was, and why you’re cracking open a fucking _ tomb _ on a Sunday night.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did,” Dean growls. “How’d you even get here?”

Josh glares at him. “I rode my bike down to your motel and you weren’t there. Library was closed, so this was the only place that made sense. Now tell me what this is or I swear to god I’ll go up to the rectory and call the police.”

Dean grits his teeth, weighing his options. He’s stuck, though, because he doesn’t know how long he has until the Mother Superior shows her ugly face again. Which means that, unfortunately, the truth is the path of least resistance here. 

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “It’s the ghost of the Mother Superior, the one you were telling me about. She almost killed Mr. Brown and I’m trying to burn her bones to banish her to the great beyond or whatever so no one else gets hurt. Happy?”

Josh just stares at him. “Are… are you  _ insane?”  _

Dean shakes his head and turns quickly back to the tomb, putting both hands on the lid and getting ready to give it another solid heave. “I told you, I  _ told  _ you you wouldn’t believe me. Just leave, okay? It’s not safe here, you need to go.”

But Josh distracted him,  _ crap, _ and he’s taken too long: that unnatural wind starts to rise again, whistling through the mausoleum in ever-stronger gusts. 

“Dean, what— what’s happening?” Josh asks, his voice laced with growing fear.

Dean lets out a growl and abandons the stubborn lid of the tomb, rounding on Josh.  _ Idiot, _ he’s— god, why can’t he  _ listen? _ “It’s the  _ ghost,  _ dumbass, I told you to  _ get out!” _

But the wind has risen to a shrill howl at this point, and suddenly there’s a malevolent, angry energy crackling through the air.

That’s all the warning Dean gets before he’s yanked violently into the air, Josh yelling his name in a voice cracked with shock and horror. Dean crashes into the wall, something deep inside his shoulder making a sick popping noise as the crowbar clatters to the floor.

The Mother Superior flickers into view right in front of Josh, and Dean claws his way to his knees, scrambling for the crowbar in a panic. He  _ has  _ to keep Josh safe. Christ, if he gets hurt, if he  _ dies,  _ Dean knows he’d never forgive himself. “Josh,  _ get out—” _

But his plea makes no difference. The Mother Superior sweeps forward, bearing down on Josh, and all Dean can see is a flash of his bloodless, terrified face over her shoulder.

Dean struggles to get a good grip on the crowbar, his shoulder on  _ fire  _ and the rest of the arm almost useless, numb with waves of prickling pain. He  _ has  _ to pick it up, though; Josh’s  life  depends on it. And at that thought, he finally manages to get his fingers wrapped around the cold metal. He scrambles to his feet, spikes of white-hot pain lancing up his arm, and lets out a mingled cry of pain and fear as he half-stumbles, half-lunges towards the Mother Superior’s dark, distorted form. 

The crowbar glints sharply in the weak moonlight spilling in through the open doors, and the Mother Superior bursts into violent tatters of spectral smoke as Dean’s wild, erratic swing bisects her from shoulder to hip.

The momentum of his follow-through pulls the crowbar right out of his already tenuous grip, and it drops to the ground with a metallic thud. Dean hisses, holding his injured arm, and looks up at Josh.

Josh swallows, his face completely drained of colour and his eyes the size of dinner plates.

“So, um. I think I believe you,” he croaks.

Dean stifles a wince. “Great. Now  _ leave. _ I’m serious.”

But even though he still looks rattled as hell, Josh frowns. “But you… your arm.” Then his face hardens. “You’re gonna get yourself killed. I’m staying. Tell me what to do.”

And  _ god,  _ Dean wants to tell him to fuck off. He wants Josh as far away from this goddamn musty old hellhole as he can get. But the fucker’s  _ right, _ and they don’t have time to waste arguing about it.

He manages to spit out a couple of important details about the ghost as they hurry to the tomb, and with two more hard pushes from Josh the lid slides far enough off that a good fire should be able to get going. Josh mans the crowbar as Dean pops open the canister of salt one-handed, sprinkling a generous layer over the desiccated contents of the tomb. 

Poisonous whispers flit around them from every corner of the mausoleum, the Mother Superior whispering hateful things that try to worm their way into Dean’s brain.  _ You are a disgrace. You disgust me. You should fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness. _

She’s  _ pissed. _

The whispers are ebbing and flowing weirdly, though; it’s like someone’s playing with the tuning knob, the words turning to garbled gibberish every couple of seconds. And it’s almost like… for a minute, it’s almost like the Mother Superior’s presence is dulled. Like there’s something holding her back.

Dean feels the moment whatever that was fails, though, and the Mother Superior comes back full force. Josh’s breathing goes high and harsh, and Dean curses at the bottle of kerosene. It’s got a screw cap. 

Josh swings at a shadow, and the whispers ramp up into a near-constant litany of muttered vitriol. “Dean, you almost—  _ shit, _ done over there?”

Dean wrenches at the cap with his teeth, spitting it out of his mouth when it finally comes free and drizzling the fuel haphazardly over the salted bones. “I’m working on it, okay? You’re fine, you’re fine.”

The muttering wanes again for a moment, that odd dullness descending for a second time. And Dean just has time to think that maybe they’ll get this done before that crusty bitch has the strength to appear again.

Then the cotton-wool overlay shatters, and the Mother Superior’s voice explodes around them in a rumbling, multi-layered paroxysm of rage that echoes unbearably off the stone walls of the mausoleum.

**_I will finish what I started, you Godless blasphemers. I will send you to_** **_HELL._**

“Hurry  _ up,  _ Dean, she’s gonna—”

“There,” Dean gasps, tossing the empty bottle of kerosene aside and pulling his lighter out of his pocket. “I just have to—”

But he’s too late.

Josh’s breath whooshes audibly out of his chest as an invisible force sends him flying, and Dean looks up just in time to see the back of his head crack against a tomb. He lets out a sob as Josh crumples to the floor, motionless, but the Mother Superior finally flickers back into being, looming ominously in the space between them. She zeroes in on Dean, giving off such an overwhelming wave of  _ fury  _ and  _ evil  _ that Dean doesn’t think he could move if he tried. 

The crowbar has skittered away into some dark corner. The shotgun is still in the bag by the door. The Zippo’s not lighting.

Dean closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable.

But then the Mother Superior shrieks, ear-splitting and horrible, and Dean’s eyes fly open to find two nuns wrestling with her, holding her back. Two more  _ ghosts.  _ And as he watches, eyes wide in mute shock, one of the new ghosts manages to pause mid-grapple and look him right in the eye, her expression severe.

_ Do it. _

He snaps out of it and flicks the lighter again, knees going weak as the flame finally,  _ finally  _ lights. Heart beating a desperate tattoo against his ribcage, he hurls the lighter into the tomb and then throws his good arm up in front of his face.

The Mother Superior _screams_ as her dusty, kerosene-soaked bones catch like dry tinder, hate and murderous rage blasting out from her in a palpable shockwave as she flames out, going up in a greasy orange pillar of fire that turns the inside of the mausoleum as bright as day.

And despite all that violence, all that  _ power… _

She’s gone in less than thirty seconds.

Dean slowly lowers his arm, leaning heavily against the tomb and blinking green-and-black spots out of his vision. He’s shaking.

But as his eyes re-adjust, he freezes. Because—

The two nuns are still there, the ones who were fighting the Mother Superior. The ones she killed all those years ago. Dean’s sure of it. They’re just standing there in the middle of the aisle, holding hands.

The taller one smiles.  _ Thank you. _

And as Dean watches, the two of them start to glow. Softly at first, like the sun peeking over the horizon at dawn; then with more strength, and more, until Dean’s squinting against the combined brilliance of the two of them.

Then the light dissipates again, and the ghosts go with it. There’s nothing left: no otherworldly flickers of emotion, no strange sounds, no breezes, no movement.

They’re gone.

The mausoleum is still and silent, washed by what faint, silvery light shines through the open doors, through the stained-glass windows. Dean shivers a little, his shoulder throbbing, and lets out a breath. He did it. It’s done, the ghost is gone, and Josh...

His gaze lands on the shadowed lump at the base of the tomb across the aisle, and his stomach lurches sickeningly. One arm is thrown out wide, lying limply on the flagstones. The hand is pale and dead-looking in the moonlight.

_ “Josh,” _ Dean gasps, pushing away from the tomb and stumbling across the dusty stone floor to crash to his knees at Josh’s side. “Josh, god, wake up, c’mon, you gotta wake up,  _ please.” _

He’s shaking Josh with one hand and cradling his cheek with the other, ignoring the painful, grinding tension in his shoulder, and there are tears streaming down his face, he’s  _ sobbing _ , because Josh still isn’t moving and if he’s dead, if he’s  _ dead— _

Then Josh groans, his face creasing in pain, and Dean has to struggle hard not to pull him into his arms, to bury his face in Josh’s hair and bask in the  _ beautiful _ sound of his breathing.

“Wha…” Josh mumbles in confusion, cracking his eyes open. “...‘ean?”

Dean brushes Josh’s bangs out of his eyes, smiling through the tears still rolling down his cheeks. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here. I— I think you’re concussed, buddy, we’ve gotta get you to the hospital. Can you sit up?”

Josh grunts weakly in agreement and Dean carefully pulls him up, getting him propped up as comfortably as he can against the tomb. Then he takes Josh’s face in his hands, making sure his hazy, unfocused eyes are directed towards Dean’s. “Don’t fucking go to sleep, okay?” he says, as slowly and clearly as he can manage. “I’ve gotta… just don’t go to sleep.”

Josh nods once, a drunken loll that makes Dean’s chest ache. “‘Kay.”

Not okay. He did this. 

This is his fault.

Scrubbing a sleeve across his face, Dean pushes himself to his feet and does a sweep of the mausoleum, retrieving the crowbar from the corner, picking up the empty bottle of kerosene and the canister of salt. Digging his Zippo out of the smouldering remains of the Mother Superior with his sleeve pulled over his hand. 

He dumps everything into the duffle he brought, shaking his head angrily. He didn’t even get to use his shotgun because it was too far away. What a stupid fucking mistake. Dad’d rip him a new one for pulling something like that.

He checks in with Josh once more before heading outside to painfully shove his duffle and then Josh’s bike into the back of the truck. His shoulder is suffused with a low burn of hot, prickly pain; tingles travel up and down his arm whenever he moves too fast, and he’s got even less mobility than he did before. Dislocated, maybe? He can’t see it, he’s not sure. And even if it wasn't in the first place, he wouldn’t be surprised if everything he did after getting thrown into the wall put it the rest of the way out.

He doesn’t dare leave Josh alone for too long, though, so he sucks it up and hustles back inside to get him. Moving from the mausoleum to the truck is a long, painful process for both of them, but eventually Dean gets him belted into the passenger’s seat and shuts the door behind him. Hospital, get Josh help, maybe get his shoulder popped back in, and then get out before anyone starts asking questions. That’s all he’s gotta do, now. That’s it.

He’s got his good hand on the driver’s side door when the mausoleum catches his eye again, and he frowns a little as he remembers the pair of nuns, the ones he’d been looking for in the first place.

They… they helped him. They weren’t vengeful, didn’t attack anyone. He’s never seen that before. And then afterwards, they just. Disappeared. Peacefully. 

If Dad was here, he wouldn’t trust that. He’d get their ashes and burn them again, just in case. He wouldn’t believe they were gone until he’d seen the fire dwindle down to coals with his own two eyes.

Dean just opens the door, gets into the truck, and pulls away from the cemetery.

They’re gone. And that’s the end of it. 

— - —

“Dean,” Josh says woozily when they’re almost to the hospital, “Dean, I saw… that really was a ghost, wasn’ it?”

Crap. Dean brakes and looks over at Josh’s confused, vulnerable expression, made strange by the red glow of the traffic light in front of them. He swallows. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. But when we… we’ve gotta lie, okay? You were helping me get some last minute research in, we lost track of time, and we ran into a homeless guy who’d broken into the mausoleum. Okay? We ran into a homeless guy and he attacked us. Say it back t’ me.” The light changes to green.

Josh blinks, breathing heavily as Dean drives the last few hundred feet and turns into the hospital parking lot. “We… research, lost track a’ time, homeless guy in the maus’leum, homeless guy beat us up. Sure. No… no ghosts.” He smiles faintly as Dean pulls into a parking spot. “I  _ knew _ there was somethin’ special about you.”

Dean lets out a wet, mirthless sort of laugh and turns off the truck. “Now I  _ know  _ you’re concussed.”

He helps Josh out of the truck the same way he helped him in, pulling the guy’s arm over his good shoulder once they’re on the pavement. Dean takes most of Josh’s weight and starts hauling them across the parking lot, one step at a time. Josh’s feet are clumsy, though, and he trips more than once. Dean grits his teeth against the dull ache of his bad shoulder and keeps going.

They’re almost to the doors when Josh presses a clumsy kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Y’ saved me, Dean. You’re… you’re a good guy.”

Dean pulls him more snugly against his side, ducking his head out of range of Josh’s lips. “Alright, just— none of that. You can’t… just back me up a little and try not to die, okay?”

“Okay,” Josh says softly, leaning his head against Dean’s. Dean closes his eyes for a second, soaking in the warm press of Josh against his side. 

Then he opens his eyes, sets his jaw, and drags them through the sliding doors of the emergency room. 

“Hello? My friend, he’s, he’s concussed, please, we need help—”

_ We’ll be okay,  _ Dean tells himself as a startled nurse jumps out of her seat, calling for help.  _ We’re gonna be okay. _

So why does he still feel like everything’s falling apart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. There we go. So, I think I've decided: there's going to be two more chapters of this. And wink-wink, nudge-nudge, you may or may not be getting an epilogue with a certain favourite angel of ours. I might be cruel, but here, now, I'm not _that_ cruel. So see you next time, lovelies.
> 
> Hugs,   
> Nepenthene


End file.
